Sorina’s first response on seeing Mark Foster was one of approval: after all those sweaty men who lied by some ten or twenty years about their age, here was someone who looked to be as young as he had claimed. Younger. But when Foster, almost apologetically, showed her his identification, she realised the deception this time had been of a different kind.
Now she was sitting in a stuffy room, faced by two plainclothes police officers, both equally stern, a woman and a man, and the handsome young detective was no longer anywhere to be seen.
In the first minutes she had been cautioned and informed of her rights, certain basic questions asked and answered: name, age, country of origin, current address. So far, Sorina thought, so routine. It was not the first time she had been questioned by the authorities and would almost certainly not be the last.
She still didn’t know what they really wanted; wondered how long it would take them to get to the point.
‘You know, I believe,’ Hadley said, ‘a man named Anthony Winter?’
Ah, Sorina thought, not long at all.
‘I’m not sure. Winter, no, I don’t think …’
‘According to his phone and email records, he was in touch with you on at least three separate occasions in the past eight weeks.’
‘I still don’t think …’
‘Sorina, you’re not in trouble here. All we’re seeking is information.’
‘Information, yes, of course. I am helping if I can.’
‘Good,’ Chris Phllips said, with the beginnings of a smile. ‘So, Anthony Winter.’
‘Yes.’
‘You do know him?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have, in fact, met him on a number of occasions.’
‘Yes.’
‘For sex?’
‘Anthony … Anthony was a friend.’
‘A friend with whom you had sex?’
‘Yes. Of course, there is nothing wrong …’
‘For money?’
Sorina looked from one face to the other.
‘You had sex in exchange for money?’ Hadley asked.
‘Sometimes he would give me present.’
‘Present?’ Phillips said. ‘That’s nice. What was it? Chocolates? Flowers, perhaps?’
Sorina shook her head.
‘You had sex with Anthony Winter,’ Hadley said, ‘sex of a particular kind, the kind of sex in which he was interested, involving the giving and receiving of pain, and in exchange for that, your part in that, you were paid. Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes.’
‘In cash?’
‘Yes.’
‘And when was the last time this happened?’
‘I … I don’t know … I can’t … I don’t remember.’
‘Maybe this will jog your memory,’ Phillips said, and keyed a short sequence of video on to the screen. ‘That is you? Approaching Winter’s studio?’
‘I’m not sure, you cannot properly see …’
‘No? Well, look. Look again. I’ll freeze the image here. Now … is that or is that not you?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘It is you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then here you are leaving, a little over an hour later.’
Sorina nodded.
‘And you see the date? The time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Saturday, April the eighth. The same evening, the same night that Anthony Winter was murdered.’
Sorina shivered and clasped her arms across her chest.
‘You know how he died? Anthony?’
A quick shake of the head.
‘He was beaten. Badly beaten. A sex game that went too far, perhaps, carried on too long.’
Sorina shivered again.
‘Is that how it happened?’ Hadley said, her voice clipped and brisk. ‘Fun and games that got out of hand?’
Sorina shook her head. Her throat was suddenly dry. When she tried to speak, the words refused to come.
‘Did you strike … did you hit Anthony Winter when you were having sex? Was that one of the things he liked you to do?’
‘No. It was not that.’
‘What then?’
‘Sometimes … sometimes he would ask me to tie him up. Like this … his hands behind his head. Behind his back.’
‘And he didn’t ask you to hit him then? Slap him, perhaps?’
‘No. It was always the other way.’
‘He would hit you?’
‘Yes. Later. When I untied him. But not always. And not so hard. You know, it was a game. Like you say before, a game.’
‘When you went to Winter’s studio that evening,’ Phillips said, changing tack, ‘how did you go?’
‘Go?’
‘Yes, travel. How did you get there?’
‘Taxi. I take taxi. Minicab. Always.’
‘And after? Going home?’
‘The same.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Which company did you use? One close to where you live? Because, of course, we can check. It will show in their records.’
‘I cannot remember. I am sorry.’
‘Is that because you didn’t go by minicab at all?’
Sorina swallowed. ‘Sometimes I get lift.’
‘Who from?’
She swallowed again. ‘My friend, Grigore.’
‘Grigore?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he’s what? Your boyfriend?’
‘No. Not really, no. Just friend.’
‘Friend from Bucharest?’
‘No. Here. Here in London.’
‘And would you say he was a good friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who takes you sometimes to meet clients, picks you up afterwards?’
‘Sometimes, yes.’
‘And you give him money?’
‘No.’
‘You never give him money? The money from clients? Never?’
Sorina looked down. ‘Sometimes, yes.’
‘So he’s your pimp?’
‘No. Friend, only friend.’
‘And I suppose the money you give him, it’s for petrol, perhaps?’ Phillips said and laughed.
Sorina did not laugh. There was fear, instead, ticking at the backs of her eyes. Maybe she had said too much, spoken – how did you say? – out of turn.
‘This Grigore,’ Hadley said, ‘does he have another name?’
Sorina’s head dropped even lower. ‘Balaci,’ she said in a whisper.
‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to speak up.’
‘Balaci.’
‘Grigore Balaci?’
‘Yes.’
Something in Hadley’s brain clicked deftly into place.